


Meet the Real Freak

by I May Age Regress (shnuffeluv)



Series: Other Side [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Diapers, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Insecure Mycroft, No Romance, No Slash, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Understanding John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/I%20May%20Age%20Regress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative meeting between one John Watson and Mycroft Holmes, where Mycroft indulges in age play and John calls him out on it. Sherlock is a brat. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet the Real Freak

**Author's Note:**

> So...um...under another one of my pseuds, _That Little Quiet Mollcroft Geek_ , I have a series of Molly and Mycroft participating in age play. But, I couldn't get the thought of Mycroft being an AB in alternate scenarios, and, well, this happened? I have other parts of the series, you can let me know anonymously (or not) if you want to see more. This is basically going to be a John & Mycroft series, no slash involved, as far as I can foresee. Sorry about spamming you guys with age play. I just...love Dom/sub stuff that isn't inherently sexual. Hence the pseud. =)

Mycroft was standing in the emptied parking garage, worrying with his umbrella handle as Anthea sent him a text: _ETA 2 minutes_

Standing upright, Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, completely ready for the arrival of one Dr. John Watson. He and Sherlock never really "made nice" after Sherlock's...outburst years ago, and now, after Uni, and drugs, and finding a career as a detective, Sherlock had found himself a companion of sorts. One who Mycroft didn't entirely trust not to feed into Sherlock's addictions. He may be a doctor, but that didn't mean anything where Sherlock was concerned. The car pulled up and Mycroft took a preparing breath. He was used to playing the villain in his line of work, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. Dr. Watson got out of the car and Mycroft could feel the aura of a man used to being in authority roll over him. It made him want to buckle right there and slip into his little headspace. But he couldn't. Not right now. "Have a seat, John," he said, gesturing to the chair in front of him with his umbrella.

"You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but er...you could just phone me. On my phone," he said, clearly irritated.

 _I could. I probably should have, all things considered._ But all he said was, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John said simply.

"You don't seem very afraid," Mycroft noted.

"You don't seem very frightening," John snapped.

Mycroft chuckled at that. The man has a good wit, something Sherlock would appreciate should he choose to listen to him. "Ah, yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

Their conversation continued, Mycroft's head reeling the enitre time, desperate to keep up. He hadn't met someone who made him so ready to drop everything and regress since...he couldn't remember. John started to walk away, and the words come out from Mycroft's mouth before he can stop them, desperate to see this man for just a while longer. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen."

Now he'd gone and piqued the doctor's interest, as well as his wrath. "My what?" Dr. Watson hissed.

"Show me?" Mycroft requested, more like demanded.

John held out his hand, and Mycroft reached for it, to examine it. John pulled away slightly, with a warning. "Don't."

That one order almost gives Mycroft pause, but he gave John a reprimanding look, and John moves his hand back. Mycroft examined the hand and found a firm callousness to it, as well as a certain precision, and of course, the empathy of any doctor. "Remarkable," he muttered.

"What is?" John asked.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?"

John paled slightly. "What's wrong with my hand?"

Time for intimidation tactics. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who _are_ you?" John asked, indignant.

"Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson...you miss it." He leaned down and whispered, "Welcome back."

John met his eyes and chuckled. "Oh, you _are_ clever. I haven't met many people who can do what you do, but I can see a few things about you, too."

Mycroft's head screamed alarms at him, but he smiled. "Oh?" he asked, humorlessly.

"Yeah. There's a bump in your jacket pocket for some object several centimeters thick, and about as wide. You keep on subconsciously reaching for it, then stopping yourself. Some sort of security object you're not used to leaving alone, and want to make sure is with you, but you can't show and keep up this shadowy persona. You have white powder between your fingers, but not drugs, you show no symptoms of being high or in withdrawal. Some sort of rash powder, most likely, but why would you need that? There's a very slight bulge around your pants, including on the sides, so you're obviously wearing something thicker than pants under your trousers. My money is on a nappy. But, there's no sign of it being used. Over the course of our conversation, I would have expected someone who is incontinent to have _some_ need to use the loo. So you wear them for a different reason." He smirked, and whispered, "You wear them for _entertainment_."

Mycroft sputtered indignantly and blushed red. How could this man know?! Not even Sherlock found out for _years_!

John walked off and Mycroft reached into his pocket, to wrap his hand around his dummy. That was...unexpected. And unsettling. What if he informed Sherlock of what he had seen? He turned and walked off, putting his dummy in his mouth. He couldn't go anywhere without it any more. He sucked on it once, twice, before he felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped. Dr. Watson took a breath and said, "Look, mate, I don't care who you are, all right? But I can tell you're in some sort of trouble, and...I was hoping that I could help? I'm not sure how much good I'd be, but, let me help."

Mycroft laughed, taking the dummy out of his mouth to speak. "You have no doubt heard that Sherlock Holmes is often called a freak?" he asked.

John coughed. "Well, yes. Why do you bring that up?"

"Because he's not the freak. I am," Mycroft said, not even looking back before he started walking again.

"Hey, wait! Wait!" John called. "Hey! Stop! That's an order!"

Mycroft froze and hung his head, running a hand over his face. He slipped the dummy into his pocket. He turned his head so he could see John out of the corner of his eye. "What do you want?" he asked, voice thick.

"I want to help you," John said, not unkindly.

"What, recommend your therapist to me?" Mycroft scoffed. "Don't you think I would have tried that already?"

"No. I mean I want to help. Not send you anywhere, because that's not help. I want to give you support."

"You have no idea what that would mean," Mycroft sighed.

"I might," John said. He walked up to Mycroft and held his hand out. "Give me your phone."

Mycroft gave him a look but pulled his phone out of his inner breast pocket. John took it and plugged in his number, handing it back once he was done. "Look, just give me a call, when you need someone, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded numbly. "O...okay?"

John reached up and patted Mycroft's shoulder, before turning and leaving. Mycroft held his phone close to his chest. "What...just happened...?" he asked himself.

* * *

Mycroft got out of the black car at the college slowly, having to make sure that Sherlock was all right, despite the friction he knew it would cause. John looked mildly surprised that he had shown up, and said something to Sherlock, causing him to scowl and walk up. "What do you want?" he spat.

"Simply to make sure that you're all right, is that so wrong?" Mycroft replied.

"Just as wrong as some of your more recreational activities," Sherlock said with a smirk.

Mycroft flinched but tried not to let it show. "Still on, that, are we? That's _so_ 15 years ago."

John looked between the two, trying to figure out what was going on. "So...you two know each other?" he asked. He looked between them, and laughed. "Of course. How didn't I see it before? You two are brothers!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock looked at him, pleasantly surprised. "Can you see what I'm talking about, too?"

John looked over at Mycroft, who felt trapped like a deer in headlights. "No, I can't see anything wrong. Why?"

Sherlock sneered. "He thinks he's a child."

"So?" John asked. "What's that have to do with you? Or me? Or anyone but him?"

Sherlock gawped at him and Mycroft's eyebrows rose to his hairline. Neither of them could say anything to this new man who had spun their opinions on their heads. Mycroft coughed. "I...should...go."

"You really should," Sherlock growled.

"Behave," John ordered. "Have a good night...er..."

"Mycroft," he supplied. "The same goes for you."

Mycroft practically ran to his car in pleasant surprise. Maybe life didn't have to be so bad for him after all.


End file.
